


There's a War Outside

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5x12, 5x13, Camlann, Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Possible Spoilers, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:29:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's face crumbles. He says, plain and broken, "I lost my magic."</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a War Outside

**Author's Note:**

> I've been peaking at the trailers and the quote teasers for our last two episodes and this happened. Not too sure about it, but it's been quite therapeutic for me, so that's something at least. :)
> 
> (So... possible spoiler alert?)
> 
> Oh, and Happy Holidays, folks. Hang in there.<3

He breathes. Thinks of his kingdom, twists his fingers around the door handle and breathes, pushes open with a too-firm, too-loud "Merlin?"

He's too pale. He’s too pale and fragile and he’s curled into himself like Arthur had only ever seen on the coldest of nights, with snow on the ground and holes in tents with his icy tipped nose pressing into Arthur's neck when Arthur supposed Merlin just couldn't think about it enough not to do it any longer. When he’d suddenly be so tiny and wracked with shivers so terrible it’d keep Arthur up all night, only to watch for the flutter of Merlin's lashes, waiting for the moment Arthur would have to unwind and pull away again before he woke.

Arthur realizes Merlin's shoulders tremble now, too. His eyes are open and he's frowning, frowning, frowning so deeply all Arthur wants to do is smooth it all away with his fingers. His eyes are bloodshot and red, far away and so magnificently devastated that Arthur supposes he looks rather insane. All he can see are his eyes. His sleeve stretched over his knuckles, one clenched and trembling fist resting on the pillow beside him, hiding his mouth and nose, fingers digging into his palm to hold it down. Arthur wonders how exactly he can look so unseeing and yet like he sees the entire world and every single god damn rotten thing ever woven into it all at once. His eyes are the bluest of blue, but dark with hollow things that Arthur decides is one of the worst things he's ever seen.

Insane. Arthur supposes he isn't far off, not at all. And, oh, isn't that a thought that twists knives in his gut.

He doesn't seem to notice Arthur's presence, let alone acknowledge it. "Merlin," Arthur says, softer, weaker than he wanted. He clears his throat, steps closer to the bed, breathes in, out. He tries not to wince at how Merlin actually startles, how his eyes are so wide, flickering from side to side like a madman before finally focusing on Arthur. His smile is so quick. So small and sad and genuine and gone in the lick of a flame.

"Arthur," he breathes, like relief. "Arthur," he croaks, like it hurts. "Arthur, I-"

"Sire." Arthur cuts, sharp. It's easier when he looks away. When he doesn't see such an infinitely broken Merlin lying tiny on tiny bed. When he can picture the Merlin that betrays, that lies and lies and lies and lies and lies and _lies_ until someone else, until someone like Arthur's sister, the one who hates him most in the world, makes it so he can't anymore. _Because, Merlin, you see- Merlin's a sorcerer, didn't you know. So terribly powerful, and since birth, would you believe. And you know how he's so loyal? You know how that's why you keep him around? well, you'll be glad to know, my Lord, that there's not a bead of loyalty left in that filth. Can't even pick sides._

It's easier to see the Merlin who's eyes hold fat apologies, that beg only to explain while simultaneously flare with a kind of immense and almost terrifying anger Arthur has never seen from him before. It's easier to rewind to the Merlin who leaped at Morgana, who sent glowing fists flying and knocking her down into the only stones for miles with barely a touch and not a single word.

And so Morgana falls to the ground, and Mordred snaps the scarf from Merlin's neck so quickly Arthur hardly sees at all. And Morgana is already screaming words in a horrible tongue Arthur's never heard before and doesn't know how to stop, and Mordred is gagging Merlin with red on bloodstained red, and the angry glow of Merlin's fists pale and pale and pale until there's nothing at all. And the ready-made iron that clamps around his neck make his unnatural eyes pale and pale and pale from that golden light that Arthur didn't realize managed to knot Arthur's lungs.

Merlin growls and kicks and twists and pulls at Mordred’s worn and war-smudged fingers. His gaze flicks to Arthur's only once. For help, Arthur presumes. Arthur doesn't move an inch.

But when Merlin slumps, disgusting and limp, that's when it's not so easy. The iron glows a terrible red and Arthur can smell the flesh burn. Merlin screams, writhing on the sopping ground, until he doesn't. Arthur never did figure out which was worse.

By the time Arthur can recover enough to shout, to scream at them to stop, stop for fuck sake, _stop_ , to pull out his sword and charge, Arthur's knights are already heard stomping about the bushes, and so Morgana and her druid boy and her chains disappear in a flurry of black smoke, of manic sobs and giggles.

_At least now you can take my raggedy maid and not feel too bad about it, eh, Arthur?_

When Arthur looks him again, he's waiting. Wide eyes childlike in their staring, waiting for Arthur to tell him off, to tell him what to do. He's still shaking, Arthur notices. He doesn't look away, though- however lost, however terrified, how ever exhausted, confused. They always did have a thing for eye contact, of Merlin never backing down.

Arthur breathes, in out, in out. There's a war outside.

"Sire," Merlin whispers. "Sire," he repeats, low, raspy, nodding to himself before staring off again into nothing.

Arthur once again takes in the unmarred skin of his neck, of what he's allowed see. He smelled the burning flesh, watched his face twist and contort with the pain, watched it relax into unconscious relief. He watched the blisters fade, saw the angry, bubbling skin shape and colour itself back to the regular, flawless pale expanse it was in a matter of minutes.

Merlin bites his lip, digging his wrist into his pillow, dragging it back and forth, hard. "What are you doing?"

"S'itchy," he mumbles, frowning in concentration. Arthur, on instinct, reaches for Merlin's wrist instantly, closing his fingers too easily around it while he grabs the salve on the tiny bedside table. "Stop," Arthur orders when he tries to pull away, eyes perpetually wide and questioning.

He puts the salve into Merlin's hand, lets go. Merlin lets his arm drop, flop uselessly back down onto the pillow, fingertips digging into the bottle. He shakes his head. "No, s'fine."

Arthur sighs, crouching down beside him and rolling Merlin's sleeve up to expose his wrist, bony and slim and flawless. Flawless, flawless, flawless. Not scorched, not glowing. Not _burned alive_. He pours the salve onto his fingers, warming them out of habit, and rubs it on Merlin's skin. He carefully ignores the quiet intake of breath, and uses his whole hand, wrapping and twisting and rubbing it in properly, even though Arthur knows he doesn't need it. Not physically, anyway.

Afterwards, when Arthur rests is elbows along the mattress and Merlin cradles his wrist in his hand, Arthur looks him dead in the eye. "Come on," he says.

"What?"

"There's a war outside."

Merlin's puzzled expression slackens. He looks farther and farther away by the minute. Arthur hates it. He hates it. Merlin shakes his head. "I can't help you. I'll only get in the way. I can't help anymore."

"I'm afraid that decision is not yours to make.”

Merlin's face crumbles. He says, plain and broken "I lost my magic."

Arthur doesn't pretend to know how that feels. Doesn't want to know, has never cared to know. As a boy he would have slapped _himself_ for ever daring down the path of acknowledging any kind of pity for a sorcerer. _A sorcerer!_ he'd spit, and kick the stones like his father was proud of him.

Arthur gets a glimpse, though. Sees what it does to Merlin. He's eyes aren't just bruised, they're lifeless. And he doesn't just tremble, doesn't just shake, he tries his hardest to dig his knees into his chest, breaks his back with how far he forces it to bend.

"They've taken it," says Arthur, loud, covering his thoughts. "Take it back."

"I don't know how," Merlin chokes, and he sounds so utterly lost, so _shattered_ , and Arthur wants to slap him and embrace him both.

He swallows. “Figure it out."

Merlin shakes his head again, almost frantic, somehow managing to curl in on himself impossibly more. "This isn't what you want," he says, more to himself than anything, "How can this be what you want?"

"There are battles to win, Merlin. Lives to save, kingdoms to keep."

"You'd use magic. You'd use _my_ magic?" he smiles, and it's terrible. Sad and tired and so sceptical and everything Merlin shouldn't be, everything his smiles shouldn't mean.

Arthur hasn't forgotten how the skies are burning closer to his castle’s gates. "I'd do anything for my people, you know that."

Merlin shakes his head again, frantic this time, and Arthur wants to frame it with his hands, make sure it doesn't fall off; sounds like something Merlin would do. "I can't. I can't. It's over, I'm done, I've failed." He rolls away on to his back, brings his sleeves to his mouth, hides from Arthur, "And everyone-" a hiccup of breath "-dies. I'm no good. I can't help and _everyone dies_ and it's always my fault and it's better if I-"

"Merlin-" Arthur stands, moving closer to see Merlin's eyes scrunched shut, cheeks soaked with tears.

"No, it's better. I'll help Gaius. I'll help. I'll change and I'll be better."

"Merlin," says Arthur, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "Look at me." He takes Merlin's hands, pulls them away from his face. He clenches his own sleeve, swipes it across Merlin's reddening cheeks. Merlin looks up at him finally, sniffling, eyes sparkling for once in so long, and for all the wrong reasons.

Arthur takes one look at the tiny, the _so tiny_ spark of hope that seems to perpetually shine in him. In the glistening of his eyes; the way they crinkle at the corners. It's in the quirk of his mouth, the dimple of his cheek. The way he flails rather than gestures with his hands when he speaks. The hurry in his step, the flowers he forgets to take from his neckerchief so Arthur won't make fun of him. Arthur's not sure how it makes sense, but it does. Arthur's not seen all of these things, not collectively, for a long while now. But every now and then he sees. And it's good, that's good, because that means Merlin's still there, in some way, amongst the sarcasm, the frowns, the tears.

Arthur sees something now. The hope, that is, in his eyes. He wishes Merlin could see it too, see how he's still himself. How it shouldn't take Arthur's touch to help it spark to life, how there's more to him than what flows in his veins, the words on his tongue that he never even took the time to learn.

"I don't want you to change," Arthur says, and he can see, he can see everything that means to him. How it's almost all he's ever wanted. Arthur feels disgusting, says as steadily as he can, "I want you to always be you."

Merlin stares. And stares and stares, a startled deer on the hunting track, a child lost wondering in the woods. "You don't mean that," he says finally, quietly. "I'll fight. You don't have to say that. I'll fight."

"Not with a sword, you won't." Merlin's eyes get wetter. He looks away again, at the door, at the wall- everywhere that's not Arthur.

"Sire." Arthur startles at Gaius' sharp tone, the old and hunched figure still making his presence known in the doorway. He’s exhausted, blood staining his fingers and his tunic, bruises under his eyes that could rival Merlin’s. He looks between Merlin-a silently sobbing Merlin- and Arthur, disapproval and protectiveness wrought all over his features. 

"Sire, Leon is searching for you." Then, bolder, "You should not be here. I don't know what you want from him, but I suggest you leave. Now."

Arthur doesn't blame Gaius for being angry. Gaius lied, as much and for as long as Merlin did, but then again, Arthur stood and, to a degree, watched Merlin burn.

"How do we get his magic back?"

"There is no _we_ , my Lord."

Arthur ignores that. "But he can get it back?"

"I will _not_ let you use him as a weapon," he says, turning then to Merlin and begging, "Merlin, do drink some water for me, at least. Please."

Merlin's sitting up now, against the headboard, head lolled to the side. Defeated. Resigned. Sad. So fucking sad. It's heartbreaking. Merlin the Liar, Merlin the Sorcerer is breaking Arthur Pendragon’s terrible excuse for a beating heart.

Arthur feels immediately drawn to him and he goes. The bed is hardly large enough for two, but Arthur sits beside him, tries to get his attention. He's faraway again, staring at nothing. Hollow. Vacant. Arthur supposes it's rather terrifying.

"Merlin?" he urges softly, "Merlin, you'll have some water, won't you?" No answer. No movement. Arthur sighs.

"Sire, really, your knights-"

"Merlin is with _me_ , Gaius," says Arthur, not taking his eyes off Merlin. "I want him by my side. All of him." Merlin rolls his head to face him, then, a tiny smile playing on his lips, eyes too red and tear tracks staining his cheeks.

Arthur leans in, whispers "We'll figure it out."

Merlin nods. "Come with me," he says, "Don't fight without me, Arthur, _please_."

_(Let me come with you, please Arthur.)_

Arthur's careful not to make any promises. He doesn't know how aware Merlin is right now, can't know for sure, and maybe that's partly the reason he cups Merlin's jaw, strokes his thumbs along the bruises of Merlin's own tearful eyes, touching his forehead to his and whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

It's not fair. It's so, completely unfair because Arthur knows, he knows how Merlin feels, just how far his loyalties stretch. He knows Guinevere is busy forging swords, dressing wounds, teaching the other ladies to, too. He knows this, and still, when Merlin sniffles so miserably, Arthur wants so badly to kiss the tip of his nose, so he does.

War rages on from the view of the tower window. People are screaming and dying and screaming and crying in furs and the oh-so-mighty Pendradon red alike. Camlann, it’s decided. They shall take to the fields of Camlann.

"It'll be alright, Merlin," says Arthur, and he hopes he's listening. "You'll see."


End file.
